


Overheard

by TooRational



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Demisexual Daryl Dixon, Developing Relationship, First Kiss, Jesus (Walking Dead) is a Little Shit, M/M, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-17
Updated: 2018-05-17
Packaged: 2019-05-08 05:56:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,163
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14687901
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TooRational/pseuds/TooRational
Summary: Nothing good ever comes from listening to other people's conversations.Especially when they're about you.





	Overheard

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Совершенно случайно](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15702633) by [goldkhator](https://archiveofourown.org/users/goldkhator/pseuds/goldkhator)



He finds out by accident. Wrong place, wrong time, maybe even the wrong person. If he came around a little later, if he weren't who he was, if if if.

But that's not the important part.

The important part is, these sorts of things change your life in a split second. Like a car crash, or a really good book. Like the world going to hell, though that took a little longer than a split second.

The other important part is: what are you supposed to do, now that you have this information? Act on it? Ignore it? Pretend you don't know about it? Freak out?

And whatever happens next, the third part is a given:

Fate is a damn asshole.

~*~

"Leave it alone, please."

"Look, I don't really wanna get involved. Believe me, I got enough on my plate to keep me busy for years. But I see what this is doing to you, and I'm worried."

"Maggie, with all due respect, it's none of your business."

Daryl pauses just shy of grasping the ornate doorknob on Maggie's office door, almost closed but not quite, and shifts back on his feet.

This seems like a private conversation.

Maybe it'll be best if he came back later.

"I know that, and I'll happily stay out of your business, but you gotta take care of it, then. Talk to Daryl and come clean, or move on."

Daryl stutters to a stop two steps into his retreat.

_What?_

Talk to Daryl about what? What did he do to Jesus?

He bites his lip, torn between leaving and listening to a conversation that clearly involves him in some way.

On the one hand, he trusts Maggie and Jesus to have his best interests in mind when deciding stuff. They're his family, he'd go blindfolded into a minefield on their say-so.

On the other, knowing where your next kick is coming from used to mean the difference between being able to escape to school and staying in bed for two days, gathering the strength to get up while his entire body is on fire. It's almost funny, in retrospect, how his old man basically trained him for this fucked-up new world. All the necessary survival skills got stomped into him a long time ago.

The moment of hesitation makes the decision for him.

"No, I don't," Jesus says in that stubborn tone of voice that drives Daryl to distraction sometimes.

"Jesus..."

"I _don't_. Why would I? I know that he's not... _into_ me. I can see that, I'm not blind. So what good would 'fessing up do, besides ruin everything?"

Daryl blinks hard, and runs the words in his mind again because there's no possible way this means what he thinks it means.

Because it sounds like... Jesus makes it seem like...

No, this must be a mistake.

"But--"

"Maggie, no. Why are we even discussing this? It's not a big deal, we're not in a Hallmark movie and my heart is not gonna get broken or anything. It's just— That's not what's going on, okay."

_What the fuck_ , Daryl's brain is screaming at him, and he wants to run away and forget this ever happened but his legs are welded to the floor.

"Look, this will all blow over. I'll get over it, it'll be a distant memory soon. I just..."

There's a pause that reveals absolutely nothing, and Daryl stares at the door like it'll bend to his will and provide an x-ray image of its insides.

"I just need a little time, that's all," Jesus adds in a low voice, and even through an inch of heavy wood he sounds tired. And something else that Daryl's mind flinches away from.

Daryl stares at the door blankly for a second, unable to form a single thought, and then a rustling sound jolts him out of his stupor — and he's suddenly petrified that they'll both come out and find him out here, and he'll have to face this— This—

Whatever _the hell_ this is.

"Okay," Maggie says, and then: "Do you have the report for this week?"

Daryl's feet finally unstick and he walks away, avoiding all the creaky spots very, very carefully.

~*~

Next to an idyllic-looking stream some ten minutes into the woods (fuck you, stream, what do you have to be so bubbly about?), Daryl paces and gnaws at his thumb and tries not to lose his fucking mind.

He could really use some walkers to shake off some of this tension, but of course the assholes don't appear when they're needed.

Fuck.

Okay, so, the thing is.

...

It's not true.

It's just not true. It can't be.

Maybe it's someone else Jesus was talking about? Some other Daryl who...

...there's no one else named Daryl that Daryl knows.

But Jesus knows more people, right?

...and never mentioned Daryl's namesake? Daryl would never hear the end of it.

_'I thought all Daryls have long hair and severe sleeve allergies, but it turns out that's not true. It's just you. Now I have to reevaluate all my data, Daryl. How could you do this to me?'_

Shit.

_Shit._

But, okay, there's no need to freak out about this.

Actually, it's really simple because there are no feelings on his side. Daryl is certified-feeling-free. There hasn't existed a person with less feelings, about this or anything in general, in the history of the world.

And even if there were feelings, it'd be... anger. And awkwardness.

Angry and awkward, that's what he is. Possibly since the moment he was born. It's almost a way of life for the Dixon men by now.

The point being, Daryl's not gay or anything of the sort. You can't be with women if you're gay, right? Daryl's been with women. Sure, he was rarely interested in them, and it all ended on a few encounters in seedy bars and even seedier parking lots, never to meet again.

But still. There were... _encounters_.

And even though Daryl never felt anything during those encounters but basic physical relief, that must mean he's still straight, if a little defective.

Right?

Or...

No, whatever, it doesn't matter what's in your head, it matters what you do. That's what's important.

And it's best for him to go home, get some distance from this shit, because he doesn't need it messing with his head.

There.

Done.

~*~

Because this is his shitty, shitty life, Daryl runs into Jesus as soon as he walks back through the Hilltop gates.

"Hey, there you are," Jesus says, a smile on his face as per usual.

What does he has to smile and be happy about all the time, anyway? Is that a lie, too? This cheery, nice persona that everyone got duped into thinking is the real Jesus?

Who is he really?

Somewhere in the very back of his head Daryl is aware he's panicking, that his thoughts are making no sense at all, but he can't deal with the reality shift that came out-of-fucking-nowhere.

"I gotta go home," he says and walks past Jesus at a rapid pace that is _definitely_ not running.

"Already? I thought you were staying for a few more days?"

"Nah," Daryl replies, not really explaining anything.

Jesus doesn't question it.

Jesus knows Daryl and recognizes his moods and doesn't question it or try to stop him at all.

Goddammit.

"Okay, then. Don't fall off that crappy old thing you call a bike," he says, and Daryl pushes down the urge to snark back, stuffs if far down his own throat.

Drives the urge to look back at Jesus even farther because no.

Just... no.

This is all one huge clusterfuck, and considering Daryl is not supposed to know anything anyway, it's best to forget it ever happened.

There, problem solved.

~*~

A couple of long, _long_ weeks later, the problem is most definitely _not_ solved.

Daryl avoided Jesus as much as he could so far, and it went fairly well, but it's still not a fool-proof system. There's the occasional trip to Hilltop for this or that reason; the regular community leaders meetings; the sharing of resources that Jesus always pulls out of his ass like some sort of magician ( _where_ does he find all this shit, everything has been looted for months, _what the hell_?).

Jesus is always there for those occasions. In whichever direction Daryl looks, it seems.

Like right now. There he is, talking to Michonne, right in front of Daryl.

The fucking nerve.

Daryl tries very hard to behave like usual, like nothing has changed, but finds – to his utter horror – that he can't remember what that is.

"You guys fighting? No more BFFs? Say it ain't so," Tara says with an obnoxious snap of gum she dug out from somewhere, and Daryl turns around and glares at her.

Does he really talk to Jesus _that_ often? Did people notice? Do they _still_ notice?

The thought lands in his gut about as comfortably as a lead balloon.

"Just a question, jeez," she says with an eye roll, and walks away, hopefully to bug her girlfriend instead of Daryl.

Jesus looks over and raises a hand in greeting, and Daryl startles like a nervous horse, then nods with an awkward jerk of his head and hurries off as if he actually has shit to do.

_For fuck's sake._

He's a grown man, what is going on?

Luckily, Carl is always happy to hand off his baby sister for free time and making out with Enid. A few hours spent with the happy, screaming-with-joy-and-endless-energy toddler, and Daryl feels centered enough to not tense and run off (again) when Jesus appears at his garage as the sun's going down.

He sits on the floor next to Daryl and wordlessly starts passing Daryl the tools he needs for fixing the bike.

It's one of the things they've started doing at some point, tampering with bikes and cars together, spending afternoons and evenings getting grease everywhere. Jesus is nowhere near as good with the mechanics as Daryl, but he knows enough to get by. Definitely to make himself useful.

Truly a jack of many trades, this man. There's not a single thing in the world he doesn't have at least a passing knowledge of, or useful information about. _Where_ he stores all that information is a mystery, though.

It's also one of the things Daryl admires about him, but that's a dangerous road to go down right now.

"Gonna tell me what's up with you?" Jesus asks after a while, scrubbing the carburetor with a wire brush idly.

"'s nothin'," Daryl says as he steals a glance from behind his bangs.

His eyes snag on Jesus' arms and shoulders, the way the t-shirt is filled out, the twitch of muscles as he attacks a particularly stubborn grease-and-dirt stain.

Were... were those always there? The shoulders and the arms and shit?

(They had to have been, they're part of his body, Daryl, you absolute dumbass.)

"You know you can talk to me, right? I know you think it'd ruin your 'street cred' but I won't tell anyone," Jesus looks up at him with a teasing eyebrow-rise, and Daryl snaps his wandering eyes back to the engine in front of him.

"I lost all my 'street cred' when I started hangin' out with you," he bites back half-heartedly and ducks his head to hide a sudden flush when Jesus laughs.

What in the _goddamn hell_ is wrong with him?

"Oh, am I cramping your style? Messing up your 'game'? Wait, since when do you _have_ any game? Oh, I know, it's the squirrels and the deer, they're the only ones getting in your pants."

Jesus throws his head back and cackles, then continues prattling and scrubbing, and Daryl tunes him out and just stares.

He's acting like nothing's wrong.

He's fucking acting like he's not hiding anything, like it's just another day in a string of similar days and all is well with the world. Like Daryl fucking hallucinated that entire conversation and enough heartache that it bled through the damn door, and even a defective fuck-up like Daryl could feel it.

This is— this is _downright insulting_.

And he can't even say anything about it because then he'd have to admit to listening and he'd have to _talk_ and--

Damn it all to hell, this shit is giving Daryl a headache.

He throws a rag at Jesus to make him shut up, which the prick avoids with ease, and buries his nose into the motor again.

There. Better.

_This_ , at least, he understands.

~*~

Daryl exists in this weird state of neither-here-nor-there for a few more weeks, half convinced he imagined the entire _Thing_ , but also getting no closer to a solution. Or complete retrograde amnesia, whichever comes first.

And it'd be fine, he's okay with things staying as they were, okay with avoiding and not thinking about any of it, but as he's hammering away at something-or-other that needs fixing, he realizes he fucking _misses_ the infuriating ninja asshole.

As someone who has the same sarcastic, biting, dark sense of humor. As a partner during runs and a sounding board for smart-versus-stupid shit to pull. As back-up. As the best possible protection for Maggie and the baby. As _a million and one things_ he hasn't even noticed he relied on Jesus for.

And most of all, as a friend. As an incredibly easy to talk to person.

Because they talk, Jesus and him.  _Daryl_ talks. He feels like he'd just found his voice again, the one he had before this whole Negan shit began, that desire to speak up and have someone actually listen and value his insight, and then he lost it all to this odd situation.

It's so stupid, but he feels cheated, somehow.

Daryl hammers away and swears under his breath, the ache spreading all over his chest.

He hates this feeling, and the situation, and himself, and Jesus, and _everything on the goddamn planet_. It all _sucks balls_.

And Daryl is the only one that can fix it. Or try to, anyway.

Daryl drops the hammer and sighs.

A few minutes is all the moping he'll allow himself, and then he'll go and pack for a trip to the Hilltop.

~*~

A day later, Daryl's carving a small piece of wood in an attempt to keep his hands and mind busy, and waits for Jesus to return from his run.

The attempt fails. The last hour has been an exercise in futility, his mind going back and forth so many times it's like a merry-go-round in there.

There is no possible way Daryl can see for... for _the thing_... to in fact... 'move forward'?

No. That's impossible.

This was a stupid-ass idea.

He can't give Jesus what he wants or needs. Daryl is a shitty choice for a... a _partner_ of any sort, and Jesus will soon realize that. He'll probably wonder what the hell he was looking at, too, relieved that he dodged a bullet.

So that's off the table. So, _so_ far off the table.

Maybe they can continue as they are? There's no reason to rock the boat, right? They can hang out and talk, that's perfectly normal. And Jesus himself told Maggie he'll get over it, why should Daryl muddy up the waters?

(Going backwards to mere allies is just— it's unacceptable. It sounds awful and _wrong_ and makes his insides feel like scrambled egg.)

No, best leave everything as it is.

"Hey, got you something," Jesus says from ten feet away, where he materialized from thin air, and throws the 'something' at him. Daryl drops the knife and the wood-bit hurriedly, and Jesus laughs, looking pleased with himself.

It's a part for the bike, one that Daryl's been searching for for at least a month now. He almost gave up on finding it.

"Heads up," the little prick says belatedly as he sits on the table next to Daryl with a dramatic twirl of his coat, and oh.

_Oh._

Daryl stares at the part.

So... definitely not a hallucination, then.

Jesus is... Jesus feels...

Daryl nods in thanks, throat tight, and rubs the dirt from the part absently.

He doesn't have a single clue what to do next.

~*~

They're on a run in a small town a couple of hours away, just the two of them because fuck Daryl's sanity, when he catches Jesus looking at him in the reflection of a window.

Daryl's not sure if it's because there's no one there to catch him doing it, or if he's convinced Daryl can't see him, or if it's just something he can't control because he doesn't know he's doing it, but...

Jesus _looks_ at him and it's—there's such an utterly _raw_ expression on his face, stripped of all walls and defenses, that it almost makes Daryl flinch. Like a curtain has dropped abruptly, and the emotion that's usually hidden is seeping into every single inch of Jesus' body, the _longing_ overflowing, spilling out, coloring everything around him.

The look lingers for a moment, and another, then crumples into absolute _devastation_ , and oh god, this is _so wrong_ , Jesus should never look this beaten down.

Daryl whips his head around, heart pounding, the urge to _do something_ overwhelming—

And Jesus smirks at him.

Like he'd done hundreds of times by now, Daryl none the wiser. Walls up, zen-ninja-Jesus back in the driver's seat _like nothing's wrong_.

And it's almost believable, Daryl's _almost_ fooled, and then he sees Jesus' hand clenched into a gloved fist for a split second before he stuffs it under his armpit.

_How_ does he do that? What kind of—

A growl and shuffle interrupt Daryl's freak-out, and he welcomes the mindless and mind-numbing activity of fighting for his life, killing the dead even deader.

It's mostly a silent and efficient affair, the two of them working in tandem, back to back, movement smooth and practiced. But near the end there's enough space between them that Daryl grows antsy, and sure enough, the feeling of dread is justified.

"Daryl, knife!" Jesus yells out, and Daryl doesn't even think about it — he spins around and throws his only knife at the walker right next to Jesus, who grabs it from the temple of the falling corpse and dispatches three walkers with eerily quick precision.

To think Daryl had once distrusted the man to the point of leaving him handcuffed at Maggie's gunpoint. How far they've all come.

Daryl uses one of his arrows to kill the last of his walkers, grumbling at himself for not keeping more knives stashed on him because Jesus will be the death of him, then just keeps an eye out while the showoff uses his remaining 'opponents' for practice.

It's almost a pleasure to watch – Jesus spins, kicks, uses momentum to add more power to his movement, strikes quick and true like a cobra, does shit that Daryl would've sworn is physically impossible just minutes ago.

And yet.

Not to mention that these are just mindless monsters, easily put down unless they're in too-large group. Seeing Jesus take on a human opponent, someone that could actually present a challenge, must be pretty incredible.

Jesus turns back around and grins at Daryl once he's done, sunlight hitting his eyes so they're the lightest possible shade of blue, and Daryl's heart squirms in his chest.

And that damn _look_ flashes in head again.

Longing.

Affection.

Devastation.

And Daryl being the cause of it all.

If overhearing The Conversation was a grenade, this is the aftershock, crumbling the remains of any denial Daryl had left.

This is really true. All of it.

Jesus cares about him as more than a friend.

_Fucking hell._

Now what?

~*~

It gets easier to spot.

~*~

During roughly a period of a month, Daryl keeps a tally:

  * Jesus stops himself from reaching out when they're talking at least once per conversation, so about seventeen times (the intention obvious in the twitch of his fingers when you know what to look for);
  * he very rarely touches him, only two times;
  * he brings him things, stuff Daryl needs or stuff that will make him laugh, on three separate occasions;
  * he seeks Daryl out seven times, and seems to genuinely enjoy hanging out and talking to him;
  * he watches him as much as he can get away with, and he's so sneaky about it that Daryl very rarely catches him, only five more times so far (his bangs help, a slanted look catching Jesus' gaze when angled _just right_ , reflective surfaces of any kind);
  * he mentions him to other people for this or that reason about ten times to Daryl's knowledge.



It's so subtle, all of it, that it's no wonder Daryl never noticed anything. But now that he has, he can't escape it. He can't _un-see_.

And he gets suddenly and viscerally _furious_ at Jesus for fucking up their friendship, for putting this on Daryl, for talking to Maggie with the door open so anyone can overhear.

What gives him the right to ruin everything?

How _fucking dare he_?

Daryl rants and raves, in his mind and under his breath while hunting, takes out his aggression on walkers and deer, stomps around, kicks at grass a little bit, and then, mere 48 hours later, just kind of deflates.

This is still Jesus, probably his best friend by now, barring Carol. Rick is the brother he never had, Maggie the younger sister, but Jesus? He has a spot all of his own, unique only to him.

No one makes Daryl laugh so hard his stomach cramps up, or instinctively knows when to talk, and when to shut up and just sit with him.

And so, even though it makes him shake with nerves and his stomach churn with nausea, he seeks Jesus out.

At first he tells himself it's nothing, he's being a good friend by ignoring this whole mess and preserving their friendship.

It's nothing, it's normal, it's fine. It's all good.

He slips back into their old routines seamlessly, creeps closer and closer, lets his hands linger on Jesus' shoulder just a tiny bit when he shoves him playfully, shifts that half-inch closer when they're under a hood together, draws back slowly when he's handing stuff to Jesus, fingertips trailing.

His instincts are screaming at him to back away, stop making a fool of himself, but Jesus never makes a wrong move.

Never, not _one single time_.

Not once does he make Daryl feel bad, or silly, or _less_.

He just looks at Daryl with those changeable eyes of his, unwavering, constant, reliable as the very ground beneath Daryl's feet.

And he slowly, _oh so slowly_ , sets Daryl's very soul ablaze.

~*~

It's when Daryl's on another babysitting-Judy duty, this one while she's napping, that he tentatively touches the ball of emotion that's resided in his gut for months now.

It's unnatural for him, thinking about feelings. Add the fact that they're about a _man_? Alien as the little green men.

But when he starts to unravel the strings, realizations and thoughts he'd been mercilessly stuffing deep inside start to surface.

Thing is.

_God_ , the thing is, Daryl started trusting Jesus way back when they first met, when he spoke up at Barrington house and took charge of a situation like he hasn't done in ages. He put his faith in Jesus right then and he never regretted it.

Little by little he'd grown to admire Jesus' skills, appreciate his advice, care about his wellbeing, crave his company.

And of course he noticed his looks, who wouldn't? The amount of creepy comments he overheard from various Saviors is not only nauseating, but it confirms his initial assessment of 'beautiful'. It also explains his deep desire to bash all of their brains in, even after Jesus inevitably slams them against the ground and makes them howl with pain. (It doesn't stop Daryl from slamming a few heads against walls and trunks, too; and between the two of them, soon no one dares to even glance in Jesus' direction.)

But all that aside, the simple and undeniable truth is this:

Daryl likes Jesus.

In all the ways that one could like a person, including the physical.

And while he can't picture what the two of them would look like together — the problem, as always, being that he just can't imagine himself in any sexual situations — he'd. Kind of like to find out.

The thought resonates, echoes through Daryl, and he lets out a shaky breath while he adjusts to this new mindset, centering himself by keeping an eye on Judith's tiny belly as she breathes in and out steadily, hypnotically.

Well.

_Wow_.

Okay, then. Time for another trip to the Hilltop.

~*~

He finds Jesus curled up in an armchair in Maggie's office, asleep, exhaustion finally having caught up with him.

And as much as he wants to touch, see Jesus' eyes, hear his laugh, _talk_ to him — this is a rarely granted opportunity.

So Daryl looks his fill, studies the soft curve of his neck and the lines of his face, the neat trim of his beard and the odd silkiness of his hair, the strength of his thighs and the knobby lumps of his knees wrapped into brown cargos. There's a tiny frown wrinkling Jesus' forehead, as if he's trying to save the world even in his sleep, and the desire to protect, to cradle and shelter, swells unstoppably inside Daryl.

He sits down before his legs can betray him and bring him any closer to Jesus, and spends an indeterminable amount of time just watching the little ninja, like a creep.

He only manages to make himself look away when Jesus stirs.

"Hey, you're here," Jesus says, and the unguarded smile and quiet happiness in his expression leaves Daryl reeling.

"What does 'ace' mean?" Daryl blurts out randomly, and it's nowhere near the top 10 things he wants to ask ( _what do you see in me_ ; _why are you hiding_ ; _who hurt you, tell me, I wanna grind their bones into dust_ ; _are you sure you even like me_ ; _how do you_ do _all that ninja crap_ ; _what's your favorite book, I know you love reading and I wanna know everything about you_ ) but it's what comes out of his stupid mouth.

"Um..." Jesus frowns a little and rubs at one eye with the heel of his hand, "Do you mean the bandage or the sexual orientation?"

"I know what a fucking bandage is," Daryl says sulkily.

Jesus uncurls with a wince and stretches his legs, probably using the motion to stall and figure out what's Daryl's deal. He's sneaky like that.

"It's short for 'asexual', means a person who experiences no sexual attraction to other people. Well, little to none, to be precise."

Daryl hums a vaguely inquiring sound and picks at his nails, this 'random topic' biting him in the ass because he's actually interested in it.

"Why?" Jesus asks, nosy as ever.

"Someone mentioned it earlier, don't matter."

A few seconds pass, then Jesus speaks again.

"There's a lot of various identities. You've got different sexualities, romantic inclinations, gender identities outside just the binary male-female, and so on. There's a bunch of terms for all of it, but to put it simply, it's the difference between who you love romantically, who you feel sexually attracted to, and how you feel about yourself inside versus how you're shaped on the outside. That's more or less it."

Daryl mulls over the words.

Put like that, it does sounds fairly simple. You like who you like, wanna be with them in specific ways or not, and you feel what you feel. No one can know what's inside your head and body better than yourself.

Daryl is more of a 'judge someone by their actions and intentions, not outsides and preferences' kind of person anyway. And considering all the options and various names out there, his attraction to just this one specific person, once in an effing lifetime, almost seems normal. As much as 'normal' is worth these days.

Wait, does _that_ have a name, too?

"What if you like just this one person, and want them and no one else?"

"That person would probably be demisexual. They mostly feel attraction and desire only after getting to know someone, after they form a strong emotional connection."

Yeah, that sounds about right.

Daryl nods, says 'okay' under his breath while avoiding Jesus' too knowing eyes.

Better not take any chances with it, Daryl's not sure what he'd do if he was confronted about any of this shit before he gets it straightened out in his head.

Nah, that's a lie, he knows what he'd do — he'd get angry and defensive, spit out something hurtful and unnecessarily cruel, then run away. That's been his go-to all these years, after all, and habits are hard to break.

But lately.

Lately, for Jesus? Who tries so hard and gives it his all? Who deserves to be happy, even if Daryl will never ever understand how _he_ is the one that holds that option in his hands?

He finds himself willing to try.

~*~

Daryl snaps on an otherwise lovely day that's actually full of frustration, and seems _specifically_ designed to rip apart all of Daryl's hard-earned peace of mind.

He'd had nightmares and barely slept for the last too-many days; therefore, he's twitchy and irritable; he managed to slam a hammer directly into his thumb instead of on the nail; he stepped into horseshit immediately after; he hasn't seen Jesus in a week; and to top it all off, he's got a rip in his vest.

And then Jesus comes back from a run, dusty and half-covered in walker guts and with a cut high on his cheekbone, and really?

_Really?_

He leaves _on his own_ , doesn't even tell anyone where he went, manages to stumble into so many walkers his precious coat is half-rusty red, and then walks around with a cut, just out in the open, ready to get infected with all sorts of shit?

Does he not give a goddamn about his own life _at all_?

Daryl follows Jesus into his trailer and goes off as soon as the door slams shut.

"Are you _outta your goddamn mind_?"

"What?" Jesus says, eyes narrowed, as he takes off the duster and starts pulling off his gloves.

"What the fuck is wrong with you?"

"Oh, I'm sure you'll tell me," Jesus bites out, because not only can he read Daryl like a book, he takes no shit, _and_ he can kick Daryl's ass with both hands tied behind his back.

But despite that, Daryl pigheadedly keeps on running his mouth.

"You can't just go off on your own, you dumbass, you gotta deathwish or something?"

"Oh, I can't?" Jesus almost growls, and the drop in the voice register sends a shiver down Daryl's spine.

A tiny alarm in the back of his head is screaming 'danger, danger, turn back, do not proceed', but Daryl is way past reason, or listening to his instincts.

He pushes into Jesus' personal space aggressively, foreheads almost touching, and Jesus doesn't flinch, doesn't back up, doesn't even _blink at all_. He just lifts his chin up and stares Daryl down, and the look _burns_.

"You goddamn right, you can't," Daryl says, the frustration warring with admiration because no one makes him so angry as Jesus does, no one stands up to him, no one challenges him, no one could ever—

"Back the fuck off, Daryl," Jesus says, and only the fact that they're almost pressed together makes it possible for Daryl to notice the shiver that runs through him, the tiny click in Jesus' throat as he swallows.

And something in Daryl's head flips, recalibrates, and then clicks with an almost audible sound. Something _changes_ , and--

Daryl ducks his head and presses a clumsy, harsh kiss to Jesus' lips.

The world kind of... stops.

There are no sounds inside the trailer, no sounds inside Daryl's head, even Daryl's heart seems to stop beating and waits for this to play out.

The little ninja turns to stone under his hands, completely immobile and very likely not breathing at all, and shit.

_Shit._

Panic sweeps through Daryl like a bushfire, making him doubt everything, including his own sanity.

_What if he's wrong, what if all of it was a fever dream, why the fuck would someone like Jesus even—_

The thought never gets finished because Jesus makes a sound at the back of his throat, half-sob and half-moan, and then wraps his arms around Daryl and yanks him in.

Relief washes over Daryl and he grabs at Jesus waist, to steady himself more than anything, and gets a shock when he encounters warm skin beneath a thin shirt.

It feels _really good_.

But there's no time to process it because Jesus is _doing stuff_ with his mouth, and his hands are on Daryl's body, and then they're pressed closer together and it's too much too much Daryl's heart will surely give out—

As if he heard him, Jesus pulls away and chokes out, "Wait, wait, what are you, what is--"

No, _no_ , Daryl changed his mind, he wants the kissing back, the kissing is also really good.

And he can't let himself think, no way no how, else he'll be running as far away as possible in less than a heartbeat.

It's the work of half a second to cradle Jesus' head in both hands and dive back in, the taste and feel of him already familiar, already something he craves like a drug addict. His head is spinning but his insides are shining, glowing like the sun itself.

Jesus gives up on talking and molds them back together, sneaks a hand beneath Daryl's shirt and slides it down Daryl's back and _ohh_.

Daryl shivers, reactions slotting together like a jigsaw puzzle of emotion, and they stumble and tilt and Daryl falls against a wall of some kind, which is honestly the only thing keeping him upright right now.

Jesus is _merciless_ , turning the tables and shoving into Daryl's personal space, pulling Daryl's mind and sanity apart piece by piece just with his mouth, and all Daryl can do is hold on and try to survive the storm. He lets his legs fall open, slots them together even tighter because yes, _yes_ , closer is good, Daryl wants to feel the weight of him, wants to be pressed into the wall until every breath feels like they're taking it together.

It's wonderful, and disturbing, and he'd probably panic because there is _no control_ to be had here, Daryl is completely out of it, but Jesus is in the same boat, Daryl can _feel_ the tremors running through him, running through them both.

They're almost reassuring.

They kiss and kiss until Daryl's lips are almost numb, until breathing is a problem with black spots in his vision, and then they melt into one another and breathe, faces buried into the safe, dark space between them.

He can feel all the questions building inside Jesus, all the words he's holding back, and for the first time in a long while he doesn't dread what's coming.

They're gonna be just fine.

~*~

So here they are – Jesus smirking at Daryl as he casually lounges against the tree trunk and eats the apple he stole from Daryl three seconds ago, while he was still on the ground and not eight feet up a tree.

When did Daryl's life turn into this? It used to be just the walkers and his family making trouble for him, and now there's another person in the mix.

"That's cheating, you dick!" he yells, and Jesus' laugh echoes, a belly-deep cackle that Daryl wants to bottle and carry with him everywhere.

Oh, okay, now he remembers why he puts up with the asshole.

"Get back down here, c'mon," Daryl says, way too fondly, damn it.

His reputation is going to be _in ruins_ soon.

Meh, it's worth it.

Jesus drops down in front of Daryl and chews the apple-bite obnoxiously, swallows with a disturbingly sexy 'mmhm' noise, and goddamn if the little asshole isn't the best thing that happened to him in a long, long time.

Daryl takes back the apple, but instead of taking a bite of his own, he sucks the juice off Jesus' lips, gently and thoroughly.

"Gotta stop stealing my shit, man," Daryl whispers against Jesus' cheek, one hand steadying himself against his hip.

Jesus waits until Daryl pulls back and then sucks his bottom lip into his mouth, eyes dark and heady, and Daryl groans.

"Shut _up_."

"I didn't say anything!"

"Yeah, you did," Daryl says, and kisses him long and deep, until they both forget what they were talking about.

He's careful not to drop the apple, though. No need to waste perfectly good fruit.

They'll need their strength.

 

END

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, got a tumblr now, [come say hi](https://toorational.tumblr.com/)! :)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Underneath](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17255465) by [TooRational](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TooRational/pseuds/TooRational)




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